


Lost and Found (That's You and Me, Babe)

by Euterpein



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Dating, Getting Together, Getting Together: Speed Run, M/M, Oral Sex, Romantic Comedy, Strong Aziraphale (Good Omens), Tattooed Crowley (Good Omens), Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25499965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euterpein/pseuds/Euterpein
Summary: Crowley has a good life. He's spent the better part of three decades becoming the best goddamn hairstylist in London, serving the city's more refined clientele at his very own salon in Mayfair. He's accomplished and comfortable, satisfied with what he's made for himself.Then, a certain fussy bookseller waltzes into his salon and into his life, and Crowley's entire world changes in a day.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 53
Kudos: 226
Collections: Holly Jolly July: a Good Omens Gift Exchange, Top Aziraphale Recs





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slateblueflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers/gifts).



> This fic was written for the the Holly Jolly July event in the GO Events discord server!

Shit, shit, _shit_! 

Crowley swerved the Bentley into a thankfully empty spot along the street, ignoring the fearful shriek of a pedestrian who had been standing just a little too close by. He snatched up his coffee and stupidly expensive designer bag and scrambled out of the driver’s side door as quickly as his rather gangly limbs could carry him, squinting through his sunglasses against the bright spring sunshine as he bustled over to the front entrance of the salon.

His receptionist, Anathema, didn’t even bother glancing up. 

“You’re late again.”

He made a sour face at her. She didn’t see it, what with her attention being focused on one of her weirdo magazines, but it made him feel better anyway.

“The boss can’t be late,” he argued. He rounded the front desk to head down the narrow hallway towards the employee section of the salon.

“Well, you’re ‘not late’ for your first client then, boss.” 

That stopped him short. “What? I thought I didn’t have a client until nine today?”

She shook her head. “Late booking. He’s been here ten minutes. I gave him some tea.”

“ _Shit_. Okay, thanks, I’ll be there in just a tick.” He practically ran down the hallway then, throwing his things into one of the neat cubbies placed on one wall for just such a purpose, and stopped to check himself in the mirror.

That morning had been, as most mornings tended to be with him, a bit of a mess. He wasn’t what one might call a “morning person.” He was, in fact, whatever the opposite of that was. His alarm had awoken him far before he had been ready to get up and he had snoozed it twice. Once its incessant shrieking could no longer be ignored he had rolled out of bed, brushed his teeth, thrown his long hair into a loose braid to keep it out of his face, and been out the door with the thought that stopping for a coffee was probably quicker than making it at home1

The figure that looked out from the mirror back at him very much reflected this haphazard morning routine. He was wearing a simple black t-shirt and skin-tight black trousers, his standard for low-effort fashion. The braid he had managed for his hair pre-coffee was something his mother might have called “artfully tousled,” though he thought it leaned a bit more towards “tousled” than “artful” in this particular instance. The myriad colourful tattoos twining their way up both his arms and just visible at the v of his t-shirt really completed the look, if that look was “ageing punk-rocker.” He sighed, decided it would have to do, and went out to meet this last-minute client.

Medusa’s was everything he had dreamed it would be when he had first gotten the idea to open his own salon nearly ten years ago. It had taken him half a decade to save up the money he needed to start the place, but it had been so very worth it. Every inch of the place was hand-designed by him. Cool grey walls and slate black floors lent the space a clean, modernist feel, highlighted by pops of colour from live plants in strategic locations throughout. It offered an unusual but satisfying contrast for the eye of the observer, and just enough of a natural air that people could feel at ease.

It was a relatively small place: five stations, with only one or two usually actually in use at any given time. This was for two reasons: one, because Crowley vastly preferred to work alone. Having some modicum of privacy with his clients meant they could have an actual, open conversation, which kept them tipping well and coming back. And two, because Crowley’s services were priced high enough that he didn’t need to stuff the place with stylists to keep it afloat. He catered to a clientele who wanted that one-on-one experience, high-quality service with a smile and possibly a flirty wink, and that was something Crowley was good at delivering.

When he was on time, that was. 

He made his way down the narrow hallway as quickly as he could without actually running, his booted steps echoing a bit on the dark tile. He hung a quick left into the main room, sweeping his eye over the stylists’ stations on one wall and the various other accoutrements scattered about until his eyes settled on the room’s single occupant.

The man was around Crowley’s age, perhaps just a few years older, though he was dressed like Crowley’s idea of a Victorian grandpa. He was wearing a _bow tie_ , for goodness’ sake. His suit was a light tan and looked well-worn, as did the waistcoat that sat beneath it. Platinum blond hair (which did look a bit in need of a trim, his stylist’s eye noted) framed his head like a fluffy little cloud. He looked like a man out of time. Crowley could easily have seen him in an old black-and-white photo and would not have thought him out of place whatsoever. 

The man was currently settled into one of the salon’s fashionably uncomfortable chairs, mug in one hand and a book in the other, and didn’t seem to register when Crowley came in. It took a polite clearing of the throat on Crowley’s part for him to look up from his reading. When he did, though, Crowley felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. The man’s smile was _incredible_. Disarmingly so. It shone like sunshine on water, so bright that Crowley squinted through his sunglasses almost on instinct. 

“Ah! Are you the barber, then? The charming young lady at the front desk told me you had been detained.”

_He even talks like a Victorian grandpa_ , Crowley thought idly. He said, “Er, yeah! That’s me. Sorry about that. Name’s Crowley, I own the place.” He reached out a hand.

The man put his book down on a little table nearby and shook the proffered hand, that blinding smile of his widening even further. His grip was warm and very firm, belying a bit of strength that must lie beneath that delightfully soft and manicured exterior. Crowley didn’t miss the way the man’s gaze flicked down to his tattooed forearms, the dip of his shirt, and he smiled his own wolfish grin right back. “This is generally the part of the conversation where you tell me _your_ name.”

“Oh!” The man jolted a little bit, dragging his eyes away from the long column of Crowley’s neck, visibly guilty. “Terribly sorry, that was quite rude of me. My name is Aziraphale Fell.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley tried, rolling the word around over his tongue as if tasting it. “Quite a name, that. Any nicknames?”

Aziraphale’s smile grew a bit strained, though Crowley thought it was more due to something he was remembering than something Crowley had said. “’Zira’ will do in a pinch, if you must, but I do rather prefer the full thing.”

Crowley shrugged. “Sounds good to me. So, I’m guessing this is your first time in?”

“What makes you say that?”

Crowley gave a wide and unrepentant smirk. “Because I absolutely would have remembered you coming in before.”

“Perhaps I came while you weren’t here then,” Aziraphale replied, apparently just to be contrary, though Crowley noticed his cheeks had pinked rather delightfully.

“Did you?”

“Er…no. This is my first time in.” He had the good grace to look a bit sheepish, at least. “I used to frequent Gianni’s.”

Crowley hummed. “He was the one in Soho, wasn’t he? I thought I’d heard about him retiring.”

“Unfortunately yes. He was a wonderful barber.”

“I’m better,” Crowley said simply. 

Aziraphale looked up at him, one eyebrow cocked in polite disbelief. “Are you, now?”

“Yup.” Crowley popped the “p” in a way that he knew would drive the man in all his fussiness slightly batty. There was something about him that made Crowley want to rile him up, want to get past that defensive wall of southern gentility and see what gooey centre lay underneath. 

Sure enough, the man’s eyebrow twitched. “Well, I suppose you’ll just have to prove it then, won’t you, Mr Crowley?” 

“Happy to.” Crowley’s grin widened; he loved a challenge. He walked over to his personal station and flipped on the lights around the mirror, popping open drawers and placing the tools he was going to need onto the minimalist surface of the counter. “Go and take a seat at the washing station over there, will you?”

“I haven’t told you what services I was here for yet,” Aziraphale pointed out, tone sceptical. “And your secretary didn’t ask. What if I’m here for a dye job? You’d want it dry.” 

“You’re not,” Crowley said with confidence, straightening his tools and turning back to meet Aziraphale’s gaze. “You’re here for a light trim and a shave, and I’d bet good money you’ll want _that_ done with a straight razor.”

If his phone weren’t back in his cubby with the rest of his things, he would have pulled it out in that moment to take a picture of the face Aziraphale made at that.

“How—how did you—?”

“I’m very good at my job,” Crowley said, shrugging his shoulders. “You’d be surprised what a person’s grooming habits say about them, and the other way around. Was I wrong?”

“N-no, you were right on. Well, I suppose I’ll…right.” Still disoriented, he stood up from the sleek waiting chair. With careful movements, he removed his jacket and laid it on the small side table with his book, then shuffled over to the salon’s single hair-washing station. Crowley came over and wrapped him in a barber’s cape, noting the slight bob of the man’s Adam’s apple as Crowley’s fingers deftly fastened the clasp at his throat. He then walked around to stand behind the basin while Aziraphale settled into the chair and tilted his head back.

Crowley smiled down at him, reassuringly. “So, what do you do, Aziraphale?” He started the tap at the side of the basin and let it run over his fingers until it could warm up.

“Me? Oh, I’m a bookseller.”

“Of course you are.”

Another raised eyebrow. “And what do you mean by that?”

“Nothing bad!” Crowley tried to backpedal. “You just look like a bookseller, is all. Or a professor, or something like that.” Running on autopilot, he let his fingers rifle through Aziraphale’s hair to get a feel for what he was working with. It was soft, much softer than it looked, and reminded him again of a cloud.

“Well, I suppose that’s fair enough.” Aziraphale conceded. “I’ve been told my wardrobe is a little bit old-fashioned.” 

_Try last century_ , Crowley thought, though he caught himself before he said it aloud. While it certainly clashed with his own aesthetic, Aziraphale’s antiquarian style seemed to work for him, somehow. “Not a bad thing. You pull it off well.”

That earned him a smile every bit as soft as Aziraphale’s hair. He brought over the now-warm spray of water in its little hose to gently wet the blond curls, using his hand to prevent any from falling into the man’s eyes. He replaced the hose and got a few pumps of lavender-scented shampoo, then brought it to be gently worked into Aziraphale’s hair from the tips.

Aziraphale’s eyes drifted slowly closed as Crowley continued his ministrations, feather-light touches across his skin and through his curls. “Would you be alright with a scalp massage?” Crowley asked. “Comes with the standard package, but I like to ask.”

“Oh, sure.” Aziraphale sounded as though he was far away already, enjoying the soothing sensations. “Sounds lovely.”

Crowley started by dipping his hands under Aziraphale’s head, gently lifting it up so he could get underneath. He pressed his soapy fingers to the base of Aziraphale’s skull, digging them in and moving them around in rhythmic circles to work at the knots he found in the muscle there. 

Aziraphale _moaned_ , eyes closed and entirely at ease, and Crowley took in a sharp breath. It wasn’t unusual for clients to make noises of appreciation during their head massages; even an amateur could make them feel good, and Crowley was the best. Usually he paid it no mind. This, though…Aziraphale’s moan had been low-pitched and utterly uninhibited, a deep rumble that had passed through Crowley like a lightning bolt. 

Luckily, he had done this enough times that his hands continued their course without faltering. More moans spilt from Aziraphale’s (pink, lovely) lips, though, and Crowley realized that if he didn’t distract himself soon things were going to start becoming an issue once it was time to stand up again. 

“So,” he started, a little desperately, “a bookseller. What kind of books?”

It took a few moments for Aziraphale to reply, and when he did his voice had slipped into a much deeper register than it had been when he had started. “Mmmm? Oh, yes. I keep a little shop with new and lightly used titles over in Soho. But if you must know, that’s mostly for the tourists. The actual money comes from the speciality market. First through third editions, signed copies, and the like. The move of the book world to an online marketplace has been a blessing in its ease of accessibility.”

“Really? You didn’t strike me as an ‘online’ kind of bloke.”

“Well, my dear,” Aziraphale said, still humming with contentment at the movement of Crowley’s fingers, “then I suppose you’re not the only one who’s full of surprises.”

Crowley grinned. “No, I suppose I’m not.”

He managed to make it through the rest of the shampoo and the cut itself without any embarrassing incidents. Aziraphale proved to be a delightful conversationalist; he was whip-smart, able to take each and every one of Crowley's teasing barbs and deal his own back without so much as blinking. He was funny, and clever, if a bit anachronistic, and Crowley found that the simple trim of Aziraphale's fluffball hair went by almost disappointingly quickly. 

Then, it was time for the shave. 

It was relatively rare for one of Crowley's clients to request a manual shave. The whole art of the thing had long gone out of fashion by the time Crowley had started at cosmetology school, and a dwindling number of barbers even knew the process nowadays. Occasionally he would get someone in that was particularly old-fashioned (or particularly obnoxious), though, who didn't believe anyone calling themselves a barber should lack such “essential” knowledge, and he had made it a point to put it firmly in his repertoire. 

He opened up the little black case that housed his straight razor carefully, pulling out each component and arranging them just so over the tabletop. 

“You do know how to use one of those things, don’t you?” Aziraphale asked. His tone was sceptical but his eyes were teasing, challenging, and Crowley grinned back.

“Not a clue. No time like the present to learn, though, is there?” 

Aziraphale huffed a short laugh at that. “Oh, by all means. I’ve got all my affairs in order, my will notarized and filed. Do carry on.”

“Excellent.” Crowley took the little brush and whipped up the shaving foam until it was stiff. He tucked a white towel around Aziraphale’s neck and pressed his fingertips lightly to Aziraphale’s jaw, encouraging him to tip his head back and away from where Crowley stood. 

The brush was applied gently over the broad expanse of Aziraphale’s neck, jaw, and cheeks, little circular motions covering the area in the gently scented foam. A few careful strokes ensured that his upper lip was covered as well.

Crowley was suddenly achingly aware of how close they were to each other. He was leaned over Aziraphale, fingers on his jaw baring his vulnerable throat, the heat of his thighs bleeding through Crowley’s trousers to the front of his legs. Aziraphale’s sea-blue eyes gazed up into his own, teasing and trusting. Crowley took in a slow breath to try and bring himself into the moment. He reached back and took up the straight razor with a light but steady grip.

“Ready?” he asked, much closer to a whisper than he had intended.

Aziraphale swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing delicately beneath the foam, and nodded. “Yes.”

Crowley tipped Aziraphale’s head back even further and a little bit towards himself to give him the ideal angle for pressing the razor to the far side of his neck, beneath his ear. He dragged the blade up slowly, carefully, minding the curve of his jaw, watching the morning’s growth of beard come up under his exacting eye.

This kind of shave was a quiet affair. Aziraphale couldn’t really speak much during, of course, and Crowley found he already missed his voice. The _shnk_ of the blade running up delicate skin and the quiet rhythm of their breathing were the only sounds in the room, the pounding of his heart within his chest the only thing marking the passing of time. It should have been uncomfortable, this intimacy, and Crowley certainly wouldn’t have described it as comfortable given the chance, but it wasn’t awkward either. It was… _intimate_.

Crowley kept up his delicate crusade for what might have been a few minutes and might have been long hours. He finished up Aziraphale’s neck and moved onto his chin, his cheeks. He shaved carefully under the nose, strikingly aware of how very nearly in the man’s lap he had to be to get the right angle, and then was finally able to pull back and wipe the remaining foam away.

Aziraphale ran a well-manicured hand over his now-smooth face, eyebrows raising. “I must say I’m quite impressed. For a first-timer, that is.”

Crowley opened his mouth to say something snarky to that, but was interrupted by a quiet knocking from the doorway.

“Boss, your next client is here,” Anathema said, looking over the pair of them. She raised a questioning eyebrow at Crowley that would have been impossible to detect in someone that hadn’t known her as long as he had.

“Shit, is it nine already?” Crowley looked back at his station, which was still in a rather disastrous state from his current job. 

“It’s about three till. Do you want me to tell them they’ll be delayed?”

“I don’t think there’s any need for that,” Aziraphale said. “I just need to get out of this cape and I’ll be quite finished here. Right, Crowley?”

“Er—yeah. I’m really sorry to hurry you out, though.”

“Nonsense.” Aziraphale unclipped the cape’s fastening at his throat. “You get your things together, I’ll go settle my bill. No trouble whatsoever.”

Crowley felt vaguely bereft at the idea of Aziraphale leaving, but nodded at him anyway. “Anathema, tell them I’ll be ready in about five minutes. And I do hope I’ll see you back again, Mister Fell.”

Aziraphale paused in picking up his jacket from the side table, slinging it over his arm and smiling back at Crowley. “Do you know, Mister Crowley, I believe you will.” He turned to follow Anathema through to the front desk.

After giving in to the urge for one last lingering glance at Aziraphale’s retreating form, Crowley sighed and turned back to the mess that was his station.

It wasn’t until early afternoon, when he was cleaning up the waiting area after his last job of the day, that he found the book that had fallen between the plush black leather chair and the small table next to it. He recognized it immediately as the one that Aziraphale had been reading earlier and picked it up. It was a battered old thing, thin and worn, obviously read through many times and loved to within an inch of its papery life. 

Crowley opened the cover and flipped through the first few pages out of idle curiosity. It wouldn’t be against his privacy policy to call a client after a lost item, though a part of him he wasn’t terribly proud of wanted to keep it to ensure the man would come back for it later. He faltered, though, when a page fell open to a bookmark.

It was simple, cream-coloured stock paper with black and gold inked decorations. A.Z. Fell and Co. Booksellers, it said. New, used, antiquarian, and unusual books. Greek Street, Soho, London. Crowley stared at it for a few seconds, warring with himself a bit, then tucked it carefully back in the book. Perhaps once he’d taken the Bentley home he’d be struck by the urge for a quick jaunt through Soho…

He finished tidying up the waiting area and, book safely tucked away in his bag, headed home with a spring in his step.

1\. This was, as It had been almost every morning for the past five years he had owned the salon, incorrect. But a perpetually late caffeine addict had to live in hope.Back


	2. Chapter 2

A shower, a quick nap, and a rather embarrassing amount of time spent picking an outfit later, Crowley found himself strolling through the crowded late-afternoon streets of Soho. Aziraphale’s book was tucked safely in the bag he had slung over one shoulder, the address he’d read off the bookmark a constant and repeating litany in his head. He wound his way through semi-familiar streets, turning right at Square Gardens, and followed Greek Street until he found himself in front of a rather curiously-shaped building marked with _A.Z. Fell and Co._ marked on the front in gold lettering. 

Taking a deep, bracing breath for courage, Crowley walked up and moved to open the door.

It didn’t budge. Crowley blinked in surprise, then rocked back on his heels to peer down at it. There was a sign pressed to the glass from the other side; it had neat if somewhat old-fashioned joined up writing which stated that the shop would be closed in the afternoon for “inventory.”

Book still in hand, Crowley weighed his options. On the one hand, it was fairly likely that someone as fastidious as Aziraphale would realize he had left the book behind and would come to retrieve it, so he wasn’t likely to be out of Crowley’s life forever if he didn’t catch him today. Plus Crowley could call to let him know. Soho wasn’t exactly far from his Mayfair flat, and the stroll had been pleasant enough he wouldn’t feel too put out if it was all for nothing. On the other hand, if Aziraphale really had closed the place to do inventory, it meant he was likely still in there…

Hesitantly, Crowley reached up to the glass-front door and gave it a knock. There was no answer after a few seconds so he knocked again, wrapping a little harder so as to be heard in the far recesses of the shop.

Finally a voice responded, mostly muffled by the glass and sounding more than a little put out: “I’m afraid we are quite closed to customers today! Apologies for the inconvenience.”

“How about to accidental booknappers trying to do a good deed?” Crowley called back, grinning at the door.

There was a series of odd, rhythmic thumps and the sound of hurrying footsteps on wood before the door was unlocked and flung wide, revealing a rather harried-looking Aziraphale on the other side. 

Crowley took in a sharp breath at the sight of him. In comparison to the effortlessly buttoned-up version Crowley had seen at the salon that morning, this Aziraphale was practically naked. His jacket, waistcoat, bow tie, and braces had been abandoned. His light blue shirt had the top few buttons undone, revealing a strip of skin at the hollow of his throat, and his sleeves had been rolled up to above the elbow. Crowley found that he had to practically tear his eyes away from the strong forearms there to look back up at Aziraphale’s face.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, looking surprised but not unhappy at his sudden appearance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Nnn,” Crowley tried, still a little thrown by the absolute vision in front of him, “Er—right, yeah—” he dug into his bag and produced the slim volume with a little flourish. “You left this at the salon this morning. It had your address in it, I hope you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale took the book with gentle hands, his eyebrows climbing to his hairline. “And you just…happened to be in the neighbourhood, is that right?”

“Er. Yes?” Crowley was going distinctly red in the cheeks.

Aziraphale cast a brief glance over Crowley. His eyes tracked down the slim-cut blazer and silver “scarf,” the trousers so tight they might as well have been painted on, the copper curls that Crowley had pulled up into a much more carefully constructed half-up. By the time he had made it back up to Crowley’s embarrassed expression he was smiling.

“Would you like a cup of tea, my dear?”

“W-what?” Crowley bit his tongue, cursing how flustered he was getting. What was it about this man that seemed to make all of Crowley’s hard-won swagger fly straight out the window?

“Tea. Inside, if you’d like. Or we could go to a café?” 

“No! No, inside is fine. I won’t be interrupting your inventory, will I?”

Aziraphale blinked at that, as though he had completely forgotten what he had been doing before Crowley had shown up at his door, but recovered quickly. “Not at all. I needed a bit of a break anyhow.”

He led Crowley inside the bookshop, which turned out to be in something Crowley would have classified as “complete and utter chaos.” Between tight stacks and cluttered tables were boxes and piles of books that looked to have little to no organization, laying in uneven drifts like freshly fallen snow. 

“Do pardon the mess!” Aziraphale locked the door behind Crowley and bustled around him, off to the back of the shop. “I’m reorganizing at the moment. Someone suggested I feature the more popular books, self-help and the like, towards the front and the literature towards the back.” 

Crowley followed him through a wooden beaded curtain that turned out to conceal a small kitchenette and watched as he put an ancient-looking kettle on the hob. “You’re going to put the literature at the front, aren’t you?”

The grin he earned in return for that contained so much pure bastard essence he thought it might blind him. “I’m going to put the literature at the front, yes.”

“Pretty much the same thing as self-help anyway,” Crowley said.

“Well, I think so, at least. There’s much to be learned from the voices of the past. And the future; the modern fiction will be just behind it.”

Crowley laughed at the pride in those words, the petty spite just behind them. “You are something else, Aziraphale. In the best possible way.”

They chatted as they waited for the kettle to boil and the tea to steep, falling into their easy patter just as smoothly as they had that morning. Crowley wasn’t as much of a reader as Aziraphale but could hold his own in a conversation about books, and found himself absolutely delighted to hear Aziraphale’s opinions on various authors, literary movements, and genres, whether or not he fully understood them or not. Occasionally he would interject with something contrary at random just to laugh at Aziraphale’s horrified face, other times he would find himself honestly moved to argue one way or another.

(“Well, I still think the funny ones are better.”

“And you are entitled to your opinions, my dear. They’re wrong, of course, but you’re more than entitled to them.”)

They kept talking until they had drained the tea from their cups and beyond, laughing in Aziraphale’s cramped kitchenette as if they had known each other for six thousand years rather than six hours. Crowley felt more completely at ease than he had in longer than he could remember. Most of his job was spent talking to people, but he usually felt more like he was being spoken to rather than being spoken with; hairstylists, like bartenders, were everybody’s idea for a discount therapist. But with Aziraphale he felt no obligation whatsoever to put on a front. His laughter was genuine, his smiles real, though the flutters in his heart (and other areas) that arose during the exchange were thankfully kept to himself.

Eventually, it dawned on both of them that they had been sitting there much longer than they had intended to.

“I should—ah, get out of your hair, I suppose.” Crowley said, at almost exactly the same time Aziraphale said, “Well, I shouldn’t keep you.” 

They stared at each other for a few moments before breaking out into slight chuckles at being so ridiculous.

“I should likely get back to my inventory,” Aziraphale sighed, regretfully. He turned a curious eye on Crowley. “Though, if you’d…well, I’d hate to be presumptuous.”

“Presume away.”

“Well, I thought perhaps once I was done here we could…get some supper? You’d be welcome to wait here and keep me company if you wish. Or we could meet at a restaurant later.”

It took Crowley all of about three seconds to think it over. “Yeah, that sounds good. Are you sure I wouldn’t get in the way if I stayed?”

Aziraphale’s smile was beatific. “Not at all, my dear! It’s much preferable to pass the time with someone to talk to. You won’t be in the way at all.”

“I could help, if you’d like? You’d have to direct me.” 

“No, no, thank you though. I appreciate the willingness, but I’m afraid my organizational system is a bit, well…”

“Chaotic?”

“I was going to say _organic_ , but you’re not incorrect. No, you just take a seat over there and look pretty, I’ll handle this.”

Crowley had a miniature heart attack at the instruction to _sit there and look pretty_ , but managed to find a sofa with only a few books on it and settled onto it as comfortably as he could. He stretched out on his side, long legs spilling over the armrest and onto the floor, and turned to watch his host. 

Aziraphale puttered around for a moment, seemingly trying to figure out where he had been in his process before Crowley had shown up at his door. He stooped to pick up a book, another, and put them down again in another location for a reason completely and utterly opaque to Crowley.

“So, Aziraphale.”

“Hmm? Yes?”

“Your name. Does it mean something specific?”

Aziraphale took a handful of books off a shelf and loaded them into a box that had already been set up on the floor. “It’s an angel’s name, actually. The guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden.”

“Really?”

“It’s not one of the more commonly known ones, I’ll admit, but that’s where it comes from. All my siblings are named for angels.” 

Crowley wanted to ask more about that, but there was a tension about Aziraphale’s shoulders when he mentioned his siblings that made Crowley hesitate. Instead, he said, “An angel, huh? ‘M not surprised. It suits you.” 

“Does it?” Aziraphale shot him a disbelieving look. “I always thought it was a bit…grandiose for me.” 

“No, it does,” Crowley insisted. “Aziraphale the angel, guardian of the books.”

“Fear his mighty wrath?”

“Oh, yes.” Crowley grinned at him. “I’d bet good money you’d be a right terror if someone threatened your books.”

“I can gratefully say I’ve never been given the opportunity to test that theory.” 

Crowley’s response died in his throat as Aziraphale leaned down to the box of books at his feet. He had assumed the box, which was rather large and absolutely full to the brim with books, was for storage purposes only, considering that he himself wouldn’t have been able to lift it in a million years. Aziraphale, though, merely grunted slightly as he hefted the weight of it into his arms. Crowley watched the muscles of his forearms flex and shift as he carried the box over to another part of the store and set the box gently on the floor again, turning away from it as though nothing extraordinary had just happened. 

“What were you saying, my dear?” Crowley’s jaw, which had been hanging open, clicked shut. 

“Hnng?” He tried, then, “Oh, ‘s nothing, angel.”

Aziraphale gave him an odd look. “It’s ‘angel’ now, is it?”

“Yup,” Crowley said, thankful for the distraction away from his obvious fluster. “Er—if that’s okay, that is. I know you don’t like nicknames.”

“I don’t like shortened versions of my own name. ‘Angel’ is…well, I suppose I’ll get used to it.” His expression told Crowley that he was more pleased than he was letting on.

Aziraphale moved books around (under Crowley’s very attentive gaze) for another hour or so, passing the time in more pleasant conversation shared from across the room. Crowley learned that Aziraphale was an aspiring baker but terrible with anything that might be described as cooking, and that he was nearly as well-versed in the appreciation of the visual arts as he was of literature. Crowley in turn told him about his hobby of plant-keeping, and that he had been trying his hand at recipes for soaps and shampoos from his home-grown herbs. 

A little later, once Aziraphale had declared his work done for the day and buttoned himself back up into his full kit, they headed a few blocks over to a sushi restaurant barely big enough for three tables. Crowley startled as Aziraphale began to chat with the woman who greeted them in Japanese.

“You speak Japanese?” Crowley asked once they had been seated at the table. “Actually, better question. How many languages do you speak?”

“Five, six if you count Latin. It’s always been a bit of a hobby of mine, to learn. And it opens me up to so many more books, of course.”

“Of course,” Crowley said, a little faintly. “I never learned more than a bit of French, and even that was in school.”

Aziraphale shot him a kind smile. “If it makes you feel any better, my dear, I’m not sure I’d know which end of the scissors to hold when it comes to doing hair. How did you get into that line of work?”

“Aaaaaah, bit accidentally, actually. I was never really drawn to going to uni right after I got my A-levels. I was on my own and looking for something I could start fast that wasn’t food service or something like that, and I…well, I got a flyer in the mail.”

“You…got a flyer?”

“For a cosmetology school. They were offering a program I could finish in six months and I sort of said, ‘Why not?’ Turned out I was good at it.”

“The best, if I recall.” Aziraphale gave him a small, secret smile. “How did you get around to owning your own place, then?”

Crowley opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by their waitress. She laid down dish after dish of sushi in front, a dizzying variety that Crowley could barely recognize, as well as warm sake with two cups. Crowley arched his eyebrow at Aziraphale. “Did you order when we first got here?”

Aziraphale looked a bit embarrassed. “I didn’t, I swear I didn’t! But they, er, they know what I like here, and it seems that they’ve--I’m awfully predictable, you see. If it doesn’t appeal I could ask Yumiko to—”

“No, no need, it’s alright,” Crowley insisted, unable to help his slight laugh at Aziraphale’s distressed expression. “It’s good to have places that know you, I suppose.”

He seemed to relax a bit at that. “It is. I’ve been frequenting this place since it opened a few years ago and it’s become something of a second home to me. Do try the sashimi, by the way, it is _delightful_.” 

Crowley laughed and reached instead for the small carafe of sake, enjoying the warmth of the ceramic under his fingertips as he poured a measure each into the small cups. He took a sip and watched Aziraphale practically wiggle with excitement as he looked over the spread before him. Aziraphale chose a morsel, some complicated-looking roll with what looked like salmon inside, and brought it to his lips.

Crowley almost spit out the mouthful of sake he’d just taken at the _moan_ Aziraphale let out when he tasted the sushi. As it was he spluttered and coughed, bringing his napkin up to cover his mouth as Aziraphale looked at him with not a small amount of concern. 

“Are you quite alright, my dear?”

“Y-yeah,” Crowley managed, thankful he could blame the flush in his cheeks on his sputtering fit. “It was a bit—er—hotter than I was expecting. Warmer! It was warmer than I was expecting.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem to think much of his flimsy excuse, but he let it slide with a final disbelieving look. “Well, if you insist. Do be careful, I’d be rather put out if you passed away on me.”

“Oh, you’d be terribly put out, would you?”

“Quite so. It’s an awful lot of paperwork, you see.”

“I’d hate to be an inconvenience.”

They smiled at each other, that same, secret little smirk they’d shared seemingly since the moment they’d met that morning, the one that made Crowley’s heart flutter in his chest like a whole flock of birds had taken up residence there.

“I’m not sure you could ever be an inconvenience to me, dear.”

Crowley only realized he’d essentially been staring deep into Aziraphale’s eyes for way too long, smiling like anything, when Aziraphale lowered his gaze back to his meal. He cleared his throat and tucked into his own sushi. Being prepared for Aziraphale’s enthusiasm helped to brace him when more pleased moans washed over from the other side of the table, quieter than the first had seemed, though whether that was because Aziraphale had moderated himself somewhat or because the first had seemed incredibly amplified to Crowley’s high-strung ears he couldn’t be sure. Either way, he found he was much more interested in the man across from him than the food before him, no matter how delectable.

The rest of their supper passed relatively uneventfully. Crowley was more than happy to push his uneaten half of the horde over to Aziraphale to be enthusiastically devoured, along with the decadent green tea mochi and raspberry chocolate cake that came after. Even his sake couldn’t distract him from the endlessly appealing sight of Aziraphale very much enjoying putting things in his mouth.

By the time they spilt back out onto the darkened streets, they were warm from the sake and the company and still grinning madly at each other.

“I suppose I should…” Aziraphale indicated the path that led back to the bookshop. His eyes were still on Crowley’s, though, and he was very obviously struggling as much to pull away as Crowley was.

“Yeah,” Crowley said, not really even sure what he was agreeing to. “Yeah, you should…it’s late.”

“It is. Quite late.”

“Cold, too.” This one was dubious; it was a rather pleasant evening in late spring, only very barely within appropriate jumper weather, but Crowley was grasping at straws. “I could…I mean, I could…”

“Warm me up?” Aziraphale whispered. His chin tipped upwards, just a little, as if on instinct, and Crowley leaned down to meet him, drawn by the same magnetic power.

Aziraphale’s lips were warm, and soft, and they parted in a little gasp as they met his own. Aziraphale kissed him like he’d been holding himself back from doing just that, like he would consume Crowley if given half the chance. It made Crowley dizzy, and just the slightest bit overwhelmed, and so aroused he could barely think straight.

He broke the kiss but didn’t go far, meeting Aziraphale’s lust-addled gaze with his own. “Take me home?” He croaked out, barely above a whisper.

Aziraphale’s hands tightened on his waist, clenching then unclenching as he panted. “I have one condition.”

“And what’s that?”

Aziraphale’s gaze was boring into his now, those blue eyes piercing in their intensity. “I don’t do one night stands, and I don’t intend to start now. I’ll take you home, want to take you home, but I—For me, this isn’t just—”

Crowley stopped him with another kiss. “If you think you’re not buying me breakfast tomorrow, angel, and probably dinner too, you’re in for a nasty surprise. ‘M not that easy to get rid of.”

Aziraphale laughed, and pulled him even closer. “Well then, my dear,” he said, letting his voice drop into a low, sultry tone that made Crowley’s knees nearly give out beneath him, “I think it might be time to retire back to mine, then, hmm?”

They shared one last kiss before they took off back down the street towards the bookshop. And if there was a bit more speed to their steps than an evening stroll might usually warrant, no-one stopped to comment on it.


	3. Chapter 3

They had barely made it through the front door of the bookshop before Aziraphale was pushing him up against one of the marble columns that supported the upper balcony, kissing him with a fervour that had Crowley moaning before he really even registered what was happening. He wrapped his arms around the angel’s shoulders, digging his fingers into the curls he had styled that morning, tugging on them gently just to feel the little growl it elicited pressed against his lips.

“I’d like to take you upstairs,” Aziraphale said between frantic kisses, his voice little more than a whisper in the hushed, dusty darkness, “I’d like to take you upstairs and lay you down on my bed, show you all the things I’ve been thinking about doing to you all day.”

Crowley moaned into the kiss, not quite believing that this buttoned-up angel of man could dirty talk quite like that. “W-what have you been thinking about?” He asked, his voice coming out infinitely less put together than he had been hoping for.

He felt rather than saw the curl of Aziraphale’s lips as they split into a smile. Warm hands were suddenly teasing at the hem of his t-shirt, slipping beneath when Crowley’s breath hitched to run blazing trails over his stomach. “I thought about getting my mouth on you. You look absolutely _delicious_ in those clothes, my dear, and I want to taste every part of you. I thought about opening you up on my fingers, making you feel so good you forgot _everything_ but my name.” Crowley cried out as a thumb swiped at his nipple beneath the shirt. He felt like the arms he had flung around Aziraphale’s neck were the only things keeping him grounded, felt like he was barely clinging on against the storm that was Aziraphale’s hands on him.

“Yes,” he rasped. “God, yes. That.” Aziraphale rewarded him with a gentle bite to his lower lip, then pulled back slightly. Crowley had a sudden moment of anxiety, but he was only moving to put his mouth on Crowley’s neck instead, laving his tongue along the whole length of it before worrying the spot just beneath his ear with his teeth. Crowley groaned and writhed, the feeling of that hot mouth on him going straight between his legs, his head spinning.

The wide, strong hands still roving across his chest made a thought pop into his head. “Do you,” he gasped as Aziraphale sucked a bruise into the meat of his neck just above his shoulder, “Do you think you could—” He looked over to one of the boxes of books Aziraphale had hauled around effortlessly earlier that day.

“Could what, darling?” Aziraphale pulled back and caught the look in his eye, following his gaze. Something flashed in his eyes, something amused, hungry. “Oh, is that all?”

The hands that had burrowed up under Crowley’s shirt slid back out, to a disappointed groan from Crowley. This morphed into a yelp as those hands clamped down on the back of his thighs and _heaved_ , sliding his back up the pillar with a jolt, forcing him to tighten his arms and legs around Aziraphale to stay upright. He panted for a few seconds, his brain refusing to process what had just happened, until he saw the smug look on Aziraphale’s face. 

“Did you just lift me like it was _nothing_?” He asked, his voice so ragged it no longer sounded like it belonged to him.

Aziraphale tutted, annoyingly collected. “You’re hardly a challenging weight, my dear. You’re all skin and bone.” He dove back in to attack Crowley’s neck with renewed vigour, stealing the breath from Crowley’s lungs before he could even think to reply.

Some unspecified amount of time passed with Crowley in a heavy daze, his back pressed against cold marble while the rest of him was surrounded by _Aziraphale_. His cock was pressed flush to Aziraphale’s wonderfully soft stomach through their clothes and he pressed himself against it mindlessly, knowing it wouldn’t be nearly enough friction to actually get him off but far beyond caring. Finally, when he felt like he would actually combust if he didn’t get to come soon, Aziraphale gave him one last nip and let him slide gently to the floor.

“Nnuh?” Crowley said, eloquently, his hips chasing after the contact before his brain caught up to the situation. 

Aziraphale chuckled at his disorientation. “I thought it might be time to take this somewhere a little more comfortable.”

“Yeah.” Crowley adjusted his stance until he was supporting his own full weight again, his somewhat shaky legs beneath him. “Lead the way.”

Aziraphale’s eyes were twinkling with banked desire as he took Crowley’s hand in his own, leading him further into the bookshop. A well-hidden door led up a narrow set of stairs which they climbed quickly, too-eager feet stumbling in the dim light. Crowley got a very brief look at a small sitting room and a neat if old-fashioned kitchen before he was being led away again, down a hallway and into Aziraphale’s bedroom. 

It was pretty much exactly what he had been expecting. Plain but comfortable, lined in yet more bookshelves, bed large and plush. Aziraphale switched on a lamp that sat beside the bed and looked back at Crowley, eyes hooded. His mouth was bitten-red and flushed and Crowley didn’t bother to fight the urge to kiss him again, pushing at the shoulders of his jacket until the tan fabric slipped down his angel’s shoulders and down to the floor.

Most of the rest of their clothes met a similar fate, hitting the floor as they kissed, their lips only parting with frustrated growls as they stooped to tug off their shoes and trousers. 

Finally Aziraphale was before him, gloriously naked, flushed and golden and beautiful. His cock was short and thick, standing to attention against the softness of his stomach. Crowley’s mouth started to water as soon as he laid eyes on it. He practically tackled Aziraphale onto the bed, drawing a delighted gasp, took his turn at kissing across the acres of skin that had been revealed to him like the most delicious feast.

“You. Are. Utterly. Beautiful” he said between presses of his lips to any part of Aziraphale he could reach. He ran his hands over his arms, the delightful short thatch of hair on his chest, the stretch marks streaking silvery lines over the curve of his stomach. Crowley followed his hands with this mouth until Aziraphale was the one squirming and grasping at the hair that was now only the vaguest facsimile of a braid, gasping his name into the quiet of the bedroom. 

“This wasn’t—ah, I was really hoping to—”

“You can, if you want,” Crowley promised, looking up from where he was still hunched over Aziraphale to meet those blue eyes gone nearly black with arousal. “You can do whatever you want, angel, but first, can I…can I taste you?”

Aziraphale groaned at that, his fingers tightening in Crowley’s hair and his cock twitching tantalizingly just below Crowley’s chin. “I think it would take a much stronger man than I to deny you on that, my dear.” He said, breathlessly. 

Crowley broke into a wolfish grin and kissed his way even further down Aziraphale’s now-trembling body, settling his hands on those wide hips and nosing his way around Aziraphale’s cock just to take in the scent of him. He breathed against the shaft, enjoying the shaky moan it drew from Aziraphale’s throat, and just barely let his tongue flick out against the fat head of him. 

“You are…frighteningly good at teasing me, my dear,” Aziraphale said, already panting. 

Crowley didn’t bother to answer that. Instead, he let his jaw open wide and took the head of Aziraphale’s cock into his mouth, savouring the way Aziraphale’s whole body twitched as if he had been struck by lightning. 

“Ooooh, Crowley, that’s—yes, darling, oh, your _tongue_ , I—”

Crowley drank in his incoherence with not a small amount of pride and sunk himself deeper onto Aziraphale, letting his throat open as much as he could stand without choking. Aziraphale clung and gasped and writhed beneath him, his babbling quickly fading into unintelligible nonsense as Crowley worked his magic. After a gratifyingly short amount of time, he cried out again in something approaching a warning and Crowley held his hips to the mattress as he swallowed him down, pulling off only when Aziraphale tugged lightly at his hair.

Crowley licked his lips and admired the way Aziraphale looked like this; blissed out and flushed, his softening cock still twitching lightly against his thigh. 

“Just give me one moment here and I’ll be right with you,” Aziraphale promised, voice sounding dreamy. 

Crowley chuckled and slid his way up Aziraphale’s supple form, giving in easily to Aziraphale’s silent plea for a kiss when he turned his head towards him. They kissed languidly for a while, Crowley’s need still simmering just under the surface but held at bay by the satisfaction of Aziraphale’s lazy satiation, until Aziraphale seemed to bring himself around to full coherence again.

He rolled them over gently, not quite on top of Crowley but beside him, and groped blindly at the set of drawers beside the bed until he returned, triumphant, with what he had been seeking: a small vial of clear liquid. “Are you sure this is still alright? I could—ah—return the favour, as it were.”

“No, angel, that sounds good.” He leaned in to nip cheekily at Aziraphale’s plump lips. “I want you inside me. Even if it’s just your fingers.”

Aziraphale let out a shaky exhale at that. “Were I just a bit younger, I don’t think that introducing more than my fingers would be an issue in this particular instance. As it is, though…” He unscrewed the cap on the small vial with slightly shaking fingers and slicked up two of them carefully. Crowley obligingly let his legs fall open as Aziraphale nudged them, draping himself over Crowley to draw him into more easy kisses as he brought a single digit to circle teasingly around his hole.

Crowley let out a soft sigh as that slick finger dipped ever so slightly inside, barely teasing at the rim before it slipped out again. This part was always a bit weird, always a slight struggle to relax against his body’s instinctual reactions and let it happen naturally. He tried to let himself sink into Aziraphale’s kisses, grasping at his short curls and broad shoulders to draw out even more passion, letting the feeling of lips and teeth and tongue distract him from any discomfort between his legs.

What discomfort there was turned out to be extremely short-lived. Aziraphale kept up his teasing movements against Crowley’s sensitive rim until it relaxed nearly effortlessly and came back with another, pulsing both into Crowley’s tight heat as it opened to him. Crowley’s cock, which had softened just a little during their make-out session and the initial point of contact, swiftly hardened again under Aziraphale’s tender administrations.

Crowley groaned and twitched his hips wildly, trying to grind down on those wonderful fingers as they explored him. He threw his head back as Aziraphale sunk especially deep and brushed up against his prostate, jolting pleasure through his belly and straight to his cock.

Aziraphale pulled away from his mouth and Crowley chased after it again, whining unashamedly at the loss of those soft lips from his own.

“None of that now, dearest,” Aziraphale said with a soft smile. “I only wanted to see how lovely you looked like this, all undone for me. Absolutely _wonderful_.” He accompanied this with a particularly sharp jab with his fingers, which made Crowley whine and scrabble at him yet again. Aziraphale’s eyes brightened, and he turned a contemplative eye on Crowley’s cock. “Do you think you could come just like this? Writhing on my fingers?”

Crowley tried to fight through the pink mist that was rapidly overtaking all his higher brain functions to process that question. _Could_ he? His whole body was too-hot and tingling like he was lit with holy fire all the places Aziraphale was touching him, burning him like a brand. His orgasm felt simultaneously just below the surface and utterly inaccessible, his aching cock between him and it like a bottleneck. “I…I don’t know,” he admitted.

“Hmm, perhaps some time we’ll test that theory. Tonight, though, I’d like for you to touch yourself for me, dear.”

Crowley nearly wept with relief. He hadn’t quite realized that he’d been waiting for Aziraphale to give him the okay, but now that he had Crowley brought the hand that was clutching at Aziraphale’s shoulder down to wrap around his cock with startling quickness. Both of them moaned long and low as his fingers curled around his length, the sudden frisson of sensation almost too much for his sparking synapses. 

“Nice and slow for me,” Aziraphale whispered, and Crowley obeyed, letting his hand fall towards the jut of his hips and back up to the leaking head with a slowness that made him whine. All the while Aziraphale’s fingers were continuing their ruthless motions within him, filling him up and hitting all the spots inside him that made his tremble and cry out.

It wasn’t long at all before Crowley, burning and burning and burning the most wonderful of ways, let out a broken sound and asked, “’M gonna—angel, gonna, please—”

Crowley couldn’t see Aziraphale’s hungry gaze through his own clenched-closed eyes, but he could practically feel it tingling along his skin anyway. “Show me, dear. I want to see you.” 

Crowley’s back arched off the bed as his orgasm took him, tearing through him with an intensity he had rarely known and washing over every muscle in his body. He gave a wordless, broken cry, thrashing and clenching down hard on Aziraphale’s fingers as warm liquid landed up the length of his chest. Almost as quickly as it had come the first intense wave of it faded, but Aziraphale kept working him through it with short, gentle movements that seemed to make it go on forever. His thrashing calmed to a weak sort of shivering and eventually he caught Aziraphale’s wrist, utterly spent.

“That was completely and utterly delightful, my dear,” Aziraphale said, dropping a sweet kiss to his cheek while he slowly withdrew his fingers. “You are a stunning creature. Divine.”

Crowley made a noise that might have indicated to someone well-versed in Crowley speak that he was not, in fact, any of those things, but he was much too far gone to put up any real (read: audible) debate.

He came back to himself a bit as Aziraphale retreated to the bathroom and returned with a soft flannel, relieving Crowley of the come streaking his chest that was rapidly becoming uncomfortable. He asked, tentatively and a little nervously, if Crowley would stay the night, and Crowley kissed every inkling of doubt off his face so thoroughly he would never remember he’d had any. 

Later, as they lay in the dark with Aziraphale curled up happily in his arms, something occurred to him.

“You called me divine earlier.”

Aziraphale hummed, low and easy, already half asleep. “And? You are, you know.”

“No, ‘s you that’s divine.” He ran a warm hand down the smooth skin of Aziraphale’s arm, enjoying the pleased hum it earned him.

“Because I’m an ‘angel?’” Crowley could hear the soft smile in his words.

“B’cause you’re _my_ angel.”

Aziraphale seemed to still for a moment, then turned himself on the sheets until he was face-to-face with Crowley again. “Do you know, my dear, I think I’ve decided I like that nickname after all.”

Crowley huffed a laugh, kissed him one last time, then tucked him against his chest for the night. 

Tomorrow would be another day. It would have all of life’s usual stumbling blocks and little miracles and all the random noise such a big universe could throw at him. But, he thought as he listened to the man in his arms slowly drift off to sleep, at least he wouldn’t be facing it alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it, slateblueflowers and all other wonderful readers!


End file.
